


One Off

by Poose



Category: Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Bullying, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Inappropriate Erections, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poose/pseuds/Poose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jamie and Malcolm are constantly bullying Ollie who usually gets an unwanted erection. Rough sex ensues." </p><p>
  <a href="http://ttoi-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/726.html?thread=132054#t132054"> For this prompt at the kinkmeme</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wreathed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/gifts).



_It_  only happened on occasion - that's what Ollie told himself - each and every time that  _it_  did, and would, with bollock-crushing inevitability.   
  
No, okay, he wasn't a poxy seventeen year old anymore, and he was, in fact, getting pretty regular sex - though (to speak frankly) the blowjobs were not all they were cracked up to be. Despite all that, Emma was still, indeed, a  _woman,_  so that was pretty bloody good, right? Yes. Definitely yes.   
  
But his body betrayed him every so often, though, luckily not as often as it had when he was seventeen.   
  
(Or eighteen, or nineteen, for that matter.)   
  
There were the one-offs that came out of fucking nowhere. Waiting in the queue at Pret to pay for his prawn mayonnaise and - for no apparent reason - there'd be a right cock-up.   
  
Or, in the shit-tips they called  _policy_  sessions, when Nicola was droning on and  sodding  _on_  and his mind would wander through the minefield of his subconscious - a scenario of dazzling ambition here, a memory about Fitz and lazy afternoons in a punt there -- parents, and school, Guy Fawkes and snogging -- all rolling past, and he'd be half hard before he realized they were all waiting for his  _much-needed and well-informed_  input.   
  
Lob on aside, Ollie would clear his throat, pull his finger out, and start to talk...  
  
Those things he could live with; that much was only fucking  _natural._ Wasn't it? Course it was. Inappropriate hard-ons went with having fucking testosterone, like the inevitable presence of pubes and, and - _chest hair_ , which, despite what Jamie and Malcolm were right now claiming to the contrary, Ollie was actually in possession of, thank you very much.   
  
"What, all six of of them?" Malcolm asked, voice teasing.   
  
"I _do_ , you know," he sputtered indignantly. "Eff off, the stupid both of you."  
  
"Have your balls even dropped, lad?" Jamie asked, looking to Malcolm for affirmation to continue this line of inquiry.   
  
Malcolm laughed. Jamie grinned. Ollie tried very very hard to disappear into the floor. Because as this went on - and when Jamie MacDonald got going, with Malcolm's tacit fucking  _blessing_  of course - it would be quite some time before the flood of abuse ceased - and that was when  _it_  decided to put in an appearance.   
  
So even though it'd been a while since Ollie had seen this side of seventeen (or the bulk of his twenties); well, the bullying he got at school never made him react like this. So that when Jamie started shouting about  _cocksucking fucking whores_  and Malcolm added in something low-voiced and deeply inappropriate about  _dribbling precome -_ he hardlyknew where to fucking look.  
  
 _Shit, shit, shit._  

Jamie alone, with his invective and spittle and mad hermit eyes, tended to frighten Ollie more than anything; and Malcolm, all accusing fingers and Baroque abuse, merely awed him.   
  
Together, though, with Jamie crowding up against him, and Malcolm promising to inflict upon Ollie an act that he'd only seen happen in the kind of porno that he'd watched -  _infrequently,_  mind you -  before rubbing one out in guilty shame, in the dark, under the duvet - possibly with all his clothes still on, only.... His collar went tight and his breath caught in his fucking throat and if he did not escape from Malcolm's office in the next twenty-one seconds he would drop dead of acute shame or  _come in his pants._  
  
Ollie wrenched up his eyes and willed it to go away with every horrible thought he could muster up: Thatcher in power for all eternity; walking in on his nan on the toilet; Glenn's ear hair.   
  
"All right," Malcolm said, though the sound barely reached Ollie's ears for all the blood buzzing through his head. "I'll take it from here, yeah?"   
  
Jamie muttered a stream of creative cursing, promised that he'd have Ollie's kidneys kippered and served at Madonna's fifth wedding breakfast, and then slammed the door so hard the bookcases rattled against the walls.   
  
Ollie swallowed and stared at the floor. Jamie's overture would merely be the setup for Malcolm's Magnum Fucking Opus of Rhetorical Bombast, to be followed by the inevitable angry pleading for Ollie to  _do this one thing, all right._ That steaming load of shit, in turn, would be none-too-sweetened - like a fucking dry and crumbly Italian cake - with barely-articulated promises of better things to come.   
  
(Of course he never believed a word of it, but it was seductive all the same. It - _Malcolm_ \- was seductive, all the same.)   
  
He laboured to keep his breath steady, looking at the tasseled edge of the carpet, counting back from a hundred. Ollie simply wanted for it to be over, for Malcolm to dismiss him with a wave of his hand, and then, if he really had to, he could find a place to go and deal with _it_ , with, Jesus,  _this_ \- though maybe not in Number 10?   
  
Malcolm cleared his throat. His voice dropped so low that Ollie shivered, and that was even before he'd realized what'd been said.

"What did you say?" he stammered, when really he should simply have made a mad dash for the door, shoved a folder in front of his trouser tent and hoped that he could find an empty stall in the Costa Coffee on the way back to Richmond Terrace.   
  
"I said, you little fucking  _pervert,"_  he repeated, eyes flicking down with casual disdain, "That there's no fucking way you can go walking around Number Ten with the horn on, fucking can you?"   
  
Ollie gulped.   
  
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. " _Can_ you?"   
  
Ollie shook his head, his own eyes wide.   
  
He backed up against Malcolm's desk and nearly toppled a pile of newspapers. The wrinkled hand that reached up to steady him landed on his hip, and then glanced lightly across his belly and --   
  
" _Oh God,"_  the noise burbled out, involuntary.   
  
"This gets you off, doesn't it?" Malcolm asked, fingers deft and searching, lowering Ollie's zipper in one swift movement.   
  
Ollie was so hard that it hurt; even the air hurt on his - now quite bare - skin, as Malcolm untucked him from his pants.   
  
He bit his lip and tried to suppress a sound like a guinea pig being smashed into bits with a garden rake.   
  
Ollie was standing in Number Ten, in an unlocked office, with a serious fucking hard-on that Malcolm Tucker (!!!) was fucking  _touching._ This was really happening? He hadn't slipped into a coma or a nightmare or a wet dream?  No, that hand was real enough, practised enough. 

The noise emerged again, as Malcolm gently ran two fingers along the underside of his cock, which gave a helpless little twitch at the contact. Ollie could not breathe. Malcolm had a hand on his _penis,_  shitting Christ. Oh, God. He was really, legitimately, going to  _fucking die._

When Malcolm pinched the tip of his cock and flicked his wrist, Ollie couldn't even register what was happening. He braced himself on the edge of the desk, old growth wood biting into his backside. The guinea pig sound turned into a fucking  _flock_ of screeching rodents being ground down into blood and bone and powder. Ollie at least did his best to keep his face impassive as he came - oh, on the fucking floor, fan _fucking_ tastic - biting his lip with the effort of it.   
  
Malcolm let go, presumably to keep his cuffs clean. His eyes, though, were searching, curious. Ollie could feel the redness of his own cheeks, all the shame and guilty excitement of being touched, and watched, and then turfed out with no ceremony, like a cheap hooker from a threadbare Blackpool bedsit.   
  
"Um," Ollie said, as he did up his flies, "um?"  
  
"No," Malcolm responded, in answer to the unasked question. "Get the fuck out. And wash your hands."


End file.
